


A Different Flavour

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agender Character, Angels with Genitalia, Dominance, Genderfluid Character, Love, Oral Sex, Roleplay, Spanking, Submission, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 15:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20342137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: A growl from the hall is the first warning Aziraphale gets that Crowley is indeed up.He continues to carefully spoon loose tea into the teapot, pressing his lips together to suppress a smile. “Good morning,” he says once the prowling footsteps come closer.“Angel…” Crowley’s voice is rougher than usual and hands slap down on the counter on either side of him.Oh, Aziraphale shouldn’t find that so… inciting, but there’s something delicious about Crowley when he’s in a forceful mood. It happens from time to time, but not nearly often enough for Aziraphale’s liking. He sets down his spoon with a rattle on the counter and turns between Crowley’s arms to face him.





	A Different Flavour

**Author's Note:**

> I can safely say this turned out a lot... more than I initially expected. Pardon me. I need to go and lie down and fan myself for a month.

A growl from the hall is the first warning Aziraphale gets that Crowley is indeed up.

He continues to carefully spoon loose tea into the teapot, pressing his lips together to suppress a smile. “Good morning,” he says once the prowling footsteps come closer.

“Angel…” Crowley’s voice is rougher than usual and hands slap down on the counter on either side of him.

Oh, Aziraphale shouldn’t find that so… inciting, but there’s something delicious about Crowley when he’s in a forceful mood. It happens from time to time, but not nearly often enough for Aziraphale’s liking. He sets down his spoon with a rattle on the counter and turns between Crowley’s arms to face him.

Crowley’s eyes are solid gold, his lips drawn back from his teeth. “What,” he growls out, “did I tell you?”

Aziraphale clasps his hands demurely in front of his chest. “You said not to do anything before coffee,” he says, recalling the demon’s words of weeks ago, words that had rattled around in his head every day like a pea in a drum, impossible to be ignore. Particular the addendum: or I might need to take vengeance. “_I_ didn’t do anything.”

Crowley leans closer, nose-to-nose, his hair swinging loosely over his shoulders and brushing Aziraphale’s hands. “Oh, _you_ didn’t do anything?” He snorts. “Pardon me if I’m wrong, angel, but _you _lifting up the covers and throwing an active vibrator at _me_ while I’m sleeping is the definition of doing something.”

Aziraphale really does try very hard to keep the impish smile off his face. “I– I dropped it?”

Crowley’s eyebrow arches. “S’that your argument?”

Aziraphale widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows in the appealing expression he knows Crowley usually cannot resist. Today, however, it seems to have lost its power and he bites his lip, hoping that might tip the balance in his favour. “What are you going to do?”

“Do?” Crowley stares at him for a long time, then he grins. “Nothing.”

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open in – what he considers – rightful indignation. “_Nothing_?”

Crowley pushes off from the counter, turning and heading for his coffee machine. “Nah.” He slants a look over his shoulder, his eye glittering like polished amber. “Vengeance doesn’t work if you _want_ it, angel. Thought you knew that. Can’t make it an indulgence for you.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opens and shuts, trying to find a suitable protest and he finally settles in an indignant huff. “Oh!”

Crowley leaned comfortably back against the counter, gazing at him. He looks marvellous in the mornings, especially with his hair loose and flaming against the jet black of his pyjamas. He lifts a hand, pushing his hair back and shakes it over his shoulders. It’s almost as if…

“Oh, you _bastard_!” he exclaims. “You’re doing it on purpose!”

Crowley tilts his head to look at him, reaching behind his head to drag his hair over the opposite shoulder, baring his throat and the lovely string of bruises that currently run from below his ear and vanish under the collar of his pyjamas. “Hm?”

Aziraphale motions emphatically to the indecorous lean, the arc of his body, the cascade of his hair, the golden eyes, the sum of all parts. “_That_.”

“Oh. This?” Crowley plucks at the topmost button of his pyjamas and bites his lower lip in mock-innocence. “Almost,” he purrs, “the same as some bastard who threw a buzzing vibrator at my head and ran away in hopes I’d… what was the word I used again? Seek vengeance?” He clicked his tongue reproachfully. “Honestly, angel, did you really think I’d… punish you when you asked like _that_?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks burn. “Ah.”

Crowley laughs, but it turns into a yawn. “You’re not subtle, if I can see through your tricks before m’coffee.”

Aziraphale fiddles with his fingers. “Well… um. I’m sorry, then.”

Crowley’s grin softens to a smile and he holds out a hand. “C’mere.” Aziraphale does so at once, threading his fingers through the demon’s. Crowley smiles, lifting them to his lips, brushing a kiss across his knuckles. “I’ll forgive you, this once.” He knocks his chin on their linked fingers and gave the angel a stern look. “But don’t do it again.”

“I shan’t,” Aziraphale agrees, then leans closer to claim a quick kiss. “I don’t know what I was thinking, my dear.”

Crowley gazes at him for an unbearably long time, then kisses his knuckles again. “I can guess,” he says, warmth and mirth in his voice and something else Aziraphale can’t quite place. “Naughty, _naughty _angel.”

_________________________________

Several nights later, Aziraphale is part way through a new edition of poetry when Crowley nudges his hip with the tip of his nose. The demon is curled up beside him, drowsing, and Aziraphale was almost sure he was asleep.

“I’m almost finished, dearest,” he murmurs, dipping a hand down to brush Crowley’s hair.

“’Ziraphale?”

It’s so rare for Crowley to use his name that Aziraphale forgets all about the book and every word he has just read. He looks down, worried. “Is something the matter?”

Crowley tilts his head to look up at him, his eyes unusually dark and somehow far more vulnerable. “You remember when I said I’d take vengeance?”

Aziraphale feels the colour rise in his cheeks. How mortifying, he thinks, that he tried to manipulate Crowley into doing something he clearly didn’t intend to do, all but forcing his hand. “And I’m still very sorry about that, my dear. I was– it was selfish of me.”

“Selfish,” Crowley echoes, then unfolds from under the covers, pushing himself up on one arm. “You… wanted me to… what? Punish you?” The confusion and worry is rife in every line of his face. “I– is _that_ what you wanted?”

Lord, Aziraphale feels so warm he’s half-sure he might be in the process of spontaneously combusting and he hastily closes his book and makes a saga of removing and folding his reading glasses, turning them over and over between his fingers.

“Not… punish, per se,” he says self-consciously. “Not… in a bad way.” His lips are awfully dry and he looks at Crowley imploringly, praying that he can understand, praying that he isn’t being a little… too odd for his best beloved. “I– it’s just– I rather like it when you… take charge, you see. I’m never… afraid when you take charge.” He laughs self-consciously. “I know. It’s all rather silly, but I–”

Crowley lunges up, snake-swift, kissing him to silence. “It’s not silly,” he whispers against Aziraphale’s lips. “Not for you. Spent your life with the blade on your neck. Course you want something you couldn’t have then.” 

Aziraphale drops his glasses in his lap, freeing his hand to cup Crowley’s cheek. “I won’t ask that of you,” he says gently. “It _was_ selfish of me. I won’t ask you to be– to do anything you don’t want.”

Crowley searches his face, rubbing his cheek against Aziraphale’s palm. “I couldn’t _hurt_ you,” he says with such aching tenderness that Aziraphale cannot help but draw him closer to kiss him again.

“I know,” he murmurs between their lips. “I _know_.” He nuzzles the tip of Crowley’s nose. “Nor I you.” Although he has to laugh self-consciously. “And as I say that, I realise I’ve left you covered in bruises for days…”

Crowley laughs too, lifting his hand to his neck and fingering the fading marks there. “Well, _that_ doesn’t count, does it?”

Aziraphale smiles, lowering his hand to brush Crowley’s. “Not given how much you enjoy receiving them,” he teases. “You do squirm so beautifully.”

Crowley’s eyebrows loft. “_Squirm_? Really?”

Aziraphale leans close, breathing him. “Deliciously,” he whispers against Crowley’s pouting lips.

“Oh _shush_…”

The angel laughs, cradling Crowley’s face between his hands. “Does that ever work?”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Not so far.” He tilts his head to nuzzle Aziraphale’s thumb. “You done reading?”

The book is already forgotten in his lap and Aziraphale smiles. “I am.”

“Good.” Crowley wriggles back down and lifts the covers in invitation. “Get down here, angel.”

Aziraphale happily nestles into him. It’s astonishing how great the relief is to know that Crowley doesn’t think poorly of him for his… foibles. But then again, Crowley has never held anything against him, even the things that every angel and many humans found odd.

“Crowley,” he murmurs, tucking his head on the demon’s shoulder.

“Mm?”

“I love you a great deal, you know.”

“Shaddup, angel.” Even in the dark he can hear Crowley’s smile.

___________________________________________

Aziraphale has almost forgotten the conversation entirely, several weeks later, when he comes home late from a small book club he attends. The lights are on, but as soon as he enters, he can’t help but notice Crowley’s glasses are not on the table by the door.

“Crowley?” He calls, peering down the hall. “Are you here?”

The bedroom door creaks open in invitation, though the room beyond is oddly dark.

Aziraphale considers the door, then takes off his coat, hanging it up on the coatrack by the front door. Months of experience of wandering into their shared bedroom has taught him one very simple thing: if his coat is on when he crosses the threshold, it is very likely to be off not long afterwards.

Out of habit, he straightens his tie, then approaches the door, tapping lightly. “Crowley? Are you in there?”

“Come in, dear.”

Aziraphale freezes, startled. He recognises that accent, that pitch, that very tone, one he knows well from another time, another place. He pushes the door open and though the room is dark, there are candles illuminating the dark figure seated in a high-backed chair, one of the dining set.

Crowley has– is– it’s–

Aziraphale swallows hard and Nanny Ashtoreth’s scarlet lips curl up. She crosses one leg over the other, arching her eyebrow, and Aziraphale’s heart give a peculiar little flop in his chest. He only ever really saw Crowley in this guise from a distance, but oh, he was magnificent in it.

Nanny Ashtoreth lifts a hand from her lap, beckoning with two curled fingers. “No loitering in the doorway, dear,” she purrs, her accent like roughened silk. “It’s rude.”

Aziraphale hastily steps into the room. “I– you–” Why, he wants to demand, but as Crowley slinks out of the chair, the skirt so tight about her thighs that she undulates across the floor like the serpent she is, as she tilts her glasses down and gazes over them – looking down at him too, somehow taller – as she smiles that cool little smile that quite turns Aziraphale’s bones to jelly, all of the angel’s words evaporate like mist on a sunny day and all he has left is a soft, awed sigh of wonder.

Crowley – Nanny Ashtoreth – is terrifyingly mesmerising and he finds he cannot look away.

Nanny Ashtoreth’s lips twitch. “You seem… happy to see me, dear.”

“Surprised,” Aziraphale manages to breathe. “You–” Lord, how are words such an effort. “You look _lovely_.”

Dressed up and playing or not, Crowley is still Crowley and he still blushes beautifully when complimented. “Oh, hush, you.” She taps him lightly in the middle of his chest. “I’m not here for flattery, Mr. Fell.”

“You’re… not?” Aziraphale can’t help but feel at a loss. “Why, then, Crowley.”

Those red-nailed fingers tap his chest a little harder. “Ah, ah, Mr. Fell.” She leans closer and he can see the gleam of golden eyes through her glasses. “You may call me Miss Ashtoreth or you may call me… Nanny.” She bares her teeth, just a little. “And I’m here because I hear you have been a… naughty angel.”

Aziraphale’s world narrows to that hand on his chest and those red lips and those gleaming golden eyes. “O-oh!” His mouth is suddenly awfully dry and his heart thundering. “Oh, you don’t– I didn’t mean for you to–” He clasps Crowley’s hand to his chest. “Darling, you don’t _have_ to.”

Crowley lifts her other hand to caress his cheek gently. “Ah, dear,” she says gently. “I _want_ to.”

“Y-you do?”

Her smile shows a flash of white teeth. “Don’t imagine you can have me doing anything I don’t want to do, Mr. Fell.” She pats his cheek a little more firmly, then steps back so sharply that he staggers, not realising how much he had been leaning in towards her. “Now…” She circles him slowly, her – oh Lord – spiked heels tapping on the floor. “What shall we do with such a _wicked_ angel?”

He feels like he should protest his innocence, even if his mouth is too dry and his heart is pounding in his ears. “I haven’t done anything particularly naughty.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Well, we both know that is a terrible lie, don’t we, Mr. Fell.” She studies him for an unbearably long moment, then lifts her chin. “Hm. No. This won’t do.” A snap of her fingers and all of his clothing vanishes around him, the sudden chill of the air in the room making him gasp aloud.

“Cr–”

“Ah!” The eyebrow arches imperiously.

Oh, Aziraphale breathes, wonderingly. No hesitation. No doubt. All of Crowley’s anxieties tucked safely away behind Nanny’s backbone of iron. It’s… delightful. “Pardon me.” He has to wet his lip before he dares to say, “_Nanny_.”

The smile that flashes across Crowley’s face is radiant. “Good boy,” she purrs, which is far more arousing than it has any right to be. She steps closer, cupping his chin in one hand, squeezing just enough, her nails biting teasingly into Aziraphale’s cheeks. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you lied to me, does it, dear?”

He shakes his head as much as he can, staring at her. Oh Lord, she could order him to lie on the floor at her feet and walk all over him and he would _thank_ her for it.

“What do you say, dear?” She trying very hard not to smile again, he can tell.

“Sorry, Nanny.”

“And do you think,” she murmurs, leaning so close her lips are almost brushing his, “that sorry is enough, Mr. Fell?” The tips of their noses brush and he has never been more aware of the touch of her hand on his face and he quite forgets how to breathe. “_Well_?”

“N-no, Nanny.”

“No,” Crow– Miss Ashtoreth agrees. “Turn around, dear, and take a hold of the bed post.”

Aziraphale blinks, forcing himself to look away from her captivating face. Oh. Yes. The bed. The bed is there. Of course. They’re in the bedroom. Silly of him to forget. Bedpost. Yes. He turns to face the bed, then hesitates. “High or low, Nanny?”

Her hand brushes the bare skin of his back, sending a prickle of goosebumps across his skin, a sharp breath catching between his teeth. “As high as you feel is comfortable, dear,” she murmurs, her lips suddenly warm and close to his ear. “I would hate for you to be uncomfortable.”

Lord, his hands are shaking as he lifts them to the post. Level with his shoulders seems good, though he can’t be sure. His judgement is somewhat clouded by the fingertips lightly tracing up and down the valley of his back, soft as a feather. “There? Good?”

Those lovely red lips close on his earlobe and sharp teeth tug briefly, making him clutch the bedpost a little harder. “Very,” she breathes in his ear. Her hand skims lower, teasing lightly over his hip and – sweet Jesus – traces the places where his angelic marks would show. “However,” she continues, drawing her hand back and away, “you can’t make up for your… misbehaviour with one wee act of contrition, can you?”

He shakes his head, his palms aching against the post. Oh, he has no idea what she has in mind for him, but the anticipation has his head swimming.

“I can’t hear you, dear,” she murmurs, her other hand gently stroking his arm.

“N-no, Nanny.”

The crack of her hand against his backside is deafening in the quiet and he damned near leaps from his skin as the electric-sharp prickle of heat.

“Oh!”

Her hand skims over the offended skin, unbearably and deliciously cool and he shifts demandingly against it. “You see what naughty boys get, dear.” Her accent is slipping, less Scottish and more Crowley’s own hungry purr. “How naughty have you been?”

He tries to gather his wits, his breath, _anything_. “O-oh, very. Very naughty.”

“Is that right?”

The second smack is less shocking, but far sweeter for it, as if the impact is sending ripples through his body. His skin feels warm, tingling from impact, and she only makes it worse by running her hand in light circles over it.

“What else have you to confess, you _wicked_ angel?”

“I– ah– I–I’ve committed temptations!”

Another sharp smack, lower, prickling across the top of the back of his thigh and–and–and–

Lord, her nails. Her nails scratching, slow, firm, shivers all through him.

“Temptations?” Her voice is silk in his ear. “What kind of… temptations?” Her fingers squeeze his backside, nails biting, sharp and hard and oh…

Oh Lord. Oh Lord, have mercy, oh _Lord_…

“B-bad ones,” he babbles out. “Very bad. Naughty.”

She moves her hand, light, so light, barely touching. Skims warmed skin, teases. Oh, he ought– the bedpost– it needs to be closer. Close enough to lean–

Her palm stings him again. He staggers a step. Oh _good_. Good. Closer to the post, to cling to.

“Like what?” She coos, soft as a turtledove. “Tell Nanny everything, dear.”

He has no idea what he says. There are words. Lots of them in fact. Probably a litany of his records. He has no idea. He only knows that with every babbling gasp, there’s another lovely sharp sting to his backside, alternating sides, and with every sting, the heat grows and spreads and she strokes and soothes and he babbles and babbles and babbles until he has no words or breaths or thoughts left and all but collapses against the post.

The world is a pleasant daze about him. The post is nice. Solid. Sturdy. Hands are off it, he thinks. Arms around it instead. Better. Stable. His eyes might be closed. Can’t be sure. All is soft and dark and warm and the heat in his skin is an inferno, tingling as fingers trace, trace, trace circles upon it.

Lips touch his shoulder.

“There, my wee lamb,” Nanny Ashtoreth whispers. “Don’t you feel better for that?”

He can only nod, words scattered like dust.

Arms are around him, holding him closer. “Lie down, my lamb,” she whispers soft as can be. “I’ll take care of you.”

It’s quite delight, Aziraphale muses distantly, as Crowley helps him to sit then – following a small wince – lie down on the bed. On his side too, as if Crowley has realised how very… delicate he might be now. It’s not… painful, per se, but rather an aching burn that will leave a very particular mark. Like those strings of bruises he likes to leave on Crowley’s throat.

The pillow beneath his head shifts and he recognises the warmth of Crowley’s thighs and the heavy fabric of Nanny’s skirt. Gentle fingers brush his cheek, thumb grazing his cheekbone, and with a great deal of effort he manages to tilt his head and open his eyes.

Crowley’s glasses are gone and by the candlelight, his eyes gleam like burnished bronze.

“All right, angel?” he asks, his thumb stroking back and forth so softly.

Aziraphale lifts his lips in a smile. Oh yes. Of course. How could he be anything but? “Mm.”

“Mm?” Crowley echoes, eyes dancing. His smile looks so lovely with Nanny Ashtoreth’s blood red lipstick and framed by gorgeously dressed hair. “Always a good sign when you’re speechless.”

He ought to protest, but words are such an effort and Crowley’s hand is so gentle. He turns his head, kisses that lovely soft thumb, then sighs happily and subsides back to rest his head on Crowley’s thigh again.

Those fingers move to card through his hair, dragging tenderly over and over. “Are you cold? I could get the blanket.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, bringing up one quivering hand to squeeze Crowley’s knee. Moving would destroy this lovely little bubble. It’s safe and it’s good and they’re together and he barely even feels a chill. “Good,” he finally eventually manages.

“I’m glad,” Crowley confides in a whisper.

It’s a long while before Aziraphale wants to do more than gently stroke Crowley’s knee and indulge in the demon’s fingers playing in his hair.

“Darling?” he says, voice hushed in the quiet.

“Mm?”

He continues to brush his fingertips along Crowley’s knee in delicate swirls. “Is– is there anything you would like?” He tilts back, just a little, to look up at his lover.

“Don’t be daft,” Crowley says with a crooked smile. “You don’t need to do anything.”

Aziraphale gazes up at him. “And if I want to?”

Crowley stares down at him, brushing his fingertips along Aziraphale’s cheek again. He chews his lip and Aziraphale knows at once a thought is lingering behind those golden eyes.

“Tell me?” he prompts, lifting his hand to stroke Crowley’s wrist.

It’s always a delight to see the blush spread across the demon’s face. He tries so hard to pretend that he is utterly unflappable, but oh, it’s so easy and so wonderful to know he becomes so flustered when offered a touch of his own pleasure.

He shakes his head. “It can wait. You’re– I don’t want to be too much for you.”

Oh that is… intriguing.

Aziraphale presses his fingertips a little harder to Crowley’s wrist. “Too much for _me_?” He can’t help the smile that breaks on his face. “Oh, _darling_, impossible.”

If Crowley was red before, he’s almost flaming down, but there’s a flicker of challenge in his eyes. “S’that so?”

The delicious warm torpor is hard to shake off, but that look in Crowley’s eyes is full of threat and promise and oh, Aziraphale cannot help but be curious. “Try me?”

Crowley chews his red-stained lips, then strokes his thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek again. “On your head be it, angel,” he warns, then slides his knees out from beneath Aziraphale’s head. His hand slips down Aziraphale’s throat to his chest, guiding him onto his back. The stinging fire in his backside has dulled to a pleasant ache, though he shifts as he makes himself comfortable. “All right?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale watches as he rises from the bed. “What do you have in mind?”

Crowley taps around the end of the bed and catches him under the knees. With a single sharp yank, he drags Aziraphale mercilessly towards the end of the bed.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, grasping at the covers to keep from falling, but Crowley’s hands are sure, holding him steady, suspended half on the bed, half off. His eyes are raking over Aziraphale’s exposed body, his teeth plucking at those lovely red lips again. Aziraphale’s heart pounds a rapid tattoo. “Wh-what do you have in mind?” he asks again.

“One temptation at a time, you said.” Crowley’s voice is more than a little hoarse. “I want that. I want to taste you.”

Aziraphale’s world shivers around him. “O-oh.” He has wondered, thought, considered, but to know Crowley _wants_ to…

His body is changing even before he allows conscious thought to take hold, smoothness giving way to now-familiar folds and hidden places.

Crowley’s face lights up, bright as starlight, and he sinks down to his knees, still cradling Aziraphale’s thighs in his hands. His thumbs move in reassuring swirls, then he _lifts _and Aziraphale hisses out a breath as the rough collar and lapels of Nanny’s coat scrape against the back of his thighs and silky flaming hair brushes along inside them.

For a breathless moment, he doesn’t move any further, not until Aziraphale struggles up onto his elbows to look down at him, an impatient whine rising in his throat.

Over the curve of his groin, framed between his thighs, Crowley flashes a blood-red smile at him, then lowers his head and Aziraphale’s sharp whine becomes a good deal shriller. Crowley may not have done any such thing before, but oh, oh _Lord_, he can do interesting things with his tongue.

It’s– he– it’s a simple– small thing. Little. Should hardly cause such staggeringly powerful ripples through his already humming body. But Crowley applies his tongue, rakes with gentle teeth and, then presses his lips about and– and– and–

Aziraphale finds his fist full of red hair and cannot remember moving his hand, his hips lifting with demanding insistence, pushing himself against Crowley’s ready mouth. The tongue darts lower, lapping, licking, flickering deeper and deeper and Crowley laughs hotly against him, nudging that sensitive throbbing mess of nerves with the tip of his nose and makes Aziraphale kick urgently at his back.

“Oh…” he manages, groping down with his other hand, both fists in Crowley’s hair, pulling.

A sharp bite to his inner thigh is a gentle warning. “No tugging, angel,” Crowley growls against his thigh, “or I stop.”

Aziraphale nods helplessly, his head falling back on the bed. He loosens his grip, but curls his fingers. Gentle, gentle, gentle. Must be gentle. A tender kiss over the bite shows his good behaviour is being rewarded and Crowley’s tongue flickers again, making him quiver.

The hands on his thighs slide up and he groans as they cup and press flush against his bruised backside, lifting him, urging him closer.

“Crowley,” he groans out, squirming, thighs trembling, fingers lost in the demon’s hair.

One of the hands beneath him moves and he shudders again as a finger brushes the soft wet folds of his body. Another hot, greedy suckle of Crowley’s lips makes him forget it until it slips inside him and his breath stutters all over again.

“Good?” The words are muffled, vibrating against him.

“Ngh.”

Crowley’s chuckle is both heaven and hell at once and Aziraphale knocks against his back with his heel, urging him to… to… to whatever more he wants to do.

The press of the finger becomes two fingers and slow, slow strokes. And Crowley’s tongue curls and licks and oh, he rubs with his thumb too and– and–

Aziraphale knocks his head back on the bedding. Breathe. Just breathe. Just… lips drawing little bruises on his thighs. Breathe… breathe as fingers move in and out with every long slow lick. Thumb pressing, rubbing, gentle, firm, gentle, gentle, firm, tongue, God above, Lord…

“Good angel,” Crowley whispers against him, the words reaching his ears like a prayer. “Good, good…” His lips close, he draws hard, fingers stroke, stroke, stroke again and Aziraphale gasps out, fingers tight in his hair, wrenching, throat raw with gasps, as sensations bursts through him, a star gone supernova.

It seems like a brief eternity until he can breathe again, staring up at the canopy of the bed.

Crowley hasn’t moved from his knees on the floor, though his hands are back modestly on Aziraphale’s thighs, smoothing gently, and his tongue darts out every few seconds, teasing another eddying flicker through Aziraphale’s quivering body.

“Crowley?” Lord, his voice sounds like a stranger, hoarse and lazy and utterly sated.

“Mm-hmm?”

He – with the utmost of effort – lifts himself on one elbow. What words he had thought of vanish like mist as his lover lifts his head, looking more debauched than Aziraphale had imagined possible. His hair is a wild tangle around his face, his lipstick smeared and glistening and wet. His wolfish triumphant grin is only made worse as he licks those smudged red lips.

“Oh Lord…” Aziraphale moans.

Crowley pushes him gently a little way up the bed and rises up between his thighs, a tantalising Venus. He unpins his hair, letting it cascade around him, then unbuttons that severe coat, shedding it like a second skin. As he climbs onto the bed, he drags up the skin-tight skirt, revealing a shocking glimpse of stocking and garter.

“Enjoying yourself?” he purrs, bracing himself over Aziraphale’s utterly useless and defenceless body, hands on either side of the angel’s head.

“Mm.” Aziraphale swallows hard, lifting an arm to tug at strand of red hair trailing against his chest.

Crowley strikes snake-fast, crushing his mouth to Aziraphale’s and Aziraphale arches up into him demanding, licking greedily at his mouth, the taste of Crowley’s lips and himself unbearably, unspeakably erotic. Crowley slips one hand under his head, cradling him, deepening the kiss and lowers himself, one thigh falling deliciously between Aziraphale’s. It presses and Aziraphale keens against Crowley’s lips, plucking at Crowley’s blouse, his hips lifting demandingly.

As if he can read Aziraphale’s mind, Crowley grinds his thigh against those soft, throbbing, warm, wet parts of Aziraphale, sending out fresh, urgent sparks. He can only groan and writhe, wrapping his own thighs around Crowley’s, hips stuttering against him, that pressure, that friction, that–

“S’right, angel,” Crowley purrs, raising his head, his eyes shining, his hair a cascading veil around them. “Good angel… good…”

His voice is as hoarse as Aziraphale’s own and his eyes are glowing and mesmerising and Lord, Aziraphale cannot bear to look anywhere else as they press and stroke and grinds against one another, the lace, the suspenders, the bare skin, the heat of it all, making his head spin.

Crowley hooks a hand under his hip, lifting him closer, hard, nods, bowing his head, pressing their brows together. “Good,” he breathes again, “oh, _fuck_, you’re so _fucking _good.”

“Good…” Aziraphale echoes dizzily. “Good…” He catches Crowley’s blouse, pulls him down, their mouths crashing together as his pleasure surges through him again and again and he cries out against Crowley’s lips.

Soft kisses follow, gentle and tender, catching his staccato breaths, drawing him back to the in-out of the every day. Crowley lifts his head again, looking down at him, his face soft and rife with affection and happiness.

It takes much more effort than Aziraphale would ever admit to lift his still-shaking hand to touch Crowley’s cheek, brushing at a smudge of lipstick. Crowley kisses the ball of his thumb, the creases around his eyes deepening as he smiles.

“Satisfied?”

Aziraphale’s eyes feel extraordinarily heavy. Lord, he has never been so spent in his life. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

Crowley chuckles and kisses his thumb again. “You always were a rubbish liar, angel.” He nuzzles the tip of Aziraphale’s nose. “Sleep?”

“Mm.”

Crowley leans down and kisses him again, softly. “Sleep then, my wee lamb,” he murmurs as Aziraphale’s eyes give in to the urge to droop closed. “I’ll take care of you.”


End file.
